


John Watson doesn't have a Boyfriend

by naughtyspirit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Sex, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Nudity, Oral Sex, Smut, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-22 08:25:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtyspirit/pseuds/naughtyspirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's date has gone very well. Sherlock requires tea. John wishes he hadn't resolved that their relationship was strictly hands off and isn't about to address it.</p><p>Unless he has to.</p><p>Smut, fluff and shower time for a naked John Watson.</p><p>~</p><p>John pushed the door open hard and grinned at Sherlock. "I feel amazing."</p><p>"Wonderful," said Sherlock. "The kettle's on."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Speech Therapist

John pushed the door open hard and grinned at Sherlock. "I feel fucking amazing."

"Wonderful," said Sherlock. "The kettle's on."

John walked inside the room and dropped his jacket down on the back of the chair. He slumped into it and rested his head against the back. For the first time in a long while, a date had gone spectacularly well. The restaurant was good, low lighting and a helpful waiter who didn't stare at Michelle's breasts when they took their order. A tall measure considering how ample they were. John struggled not to stare at them at first but Michelle was a bright, well read and above all amusing woman and he found himself entertained and drawn into a conversation that didn't drag once.

Better still, when they left the restaurant and he suggested they go for a drink, she invited him back to her place and pounced on John as soon as the door shut behind him. His body still tingled from sex so easily on offer and though she insisted that he didn't stay the night, (all explained through sweet and rather touching gestures about it only being a first date) John couldn't have asked for things to go better. You couldn't wipe the grin off his face if you tried.

Sherlock, no doubt, would give it a good attempt.

John turned to look at Sherlock. He was still fully dressed despite the hour and his violin is rested on the arm of the chair. He'd clearly been playing, though John didn't hear anything when he walked upstairs. A cup of tea sat at the base of the chair that John thought was there when he left. It was probably icy cold and John wondered whether Sherlock spent the entire evening devoting himself to the violin.

When it had happened previously and John was home, he spent the time watching Sherlock play. John was always fascinated with people who could do things well and music always reminded him of school. The kids who could play were taken out of class and sent on mysterious trips to receive medals and certificates. His own attempts were reasonable but nothing for his parents to be excited about. John had sometimes wondered if there was a pile of trophies somewhere hidden, Sherlock's achievements from a bygone age.

The sound alone was incredible, but watching Sherlock lifted it above that. He played as though he and the violin were a single, perfect piece of machinery, the bow a natural extension of his own arm. John found himself fascinated with the shape of his hands as they picked at the strings and the way the violin tucked in under his chin. Sherlock's throat drew the eye most of the time anyway, what with the number of times the scarf went on or came off, but John thought he liked it best when Sherlock was playing. His throat seemed vulnerable then and John worried sometimes that the urge to press his lips against the pulse point would grow too much to resist.

That was beyond the line they'd drawn between them. Best friends, flatmates and partners in crime. John had heard the term heterosexual life partner and thought it was the closest he could get to what they were. It certainly described what they were from the outside and made for an interesting life together. Provided that the line was never crossed, John could see the future between them and believed that it could be something a man could live for. All it took was the simple sacrifice of no sex and no kissing and denying they were a couple whenever anyone inquired. Sherlock could clearly live with it and after that first, restaurant based conversation, John intended he would never put Sherlock in that awkward position again.

John grinned across at Sherlock and gestured. "Had a good night?"

"Fine," said Sherlock and narrowed his eyes briefly at John before he arched an eyebrow. "Didn't let you stay?"

John's grin twitched, just a little before he shook his head. "It was only a first date."

"So I gather," said Sherlock. "The kettle-"

"Isn't on," said John and pushed himself up again. "You did move while I was gone?"

"Not as much as you did, evidently," said Sherlock and closed his eyes. He rested his head back against the back of the chair. "What was this one's name?"

"Michelle," said John as he headed into the kitchen. "She's a speech therapist."

"Save us from those," said Sherlock and tapped a hand against the bare arm of the chair. "Was the service spectacularly quick at the restaurant?"

"About average," said John. "It was a good place. You'd like it if you ate."

"I eat what you make," said Sherlock. "So you left around nine thirty?"

"You eat what's in," said John. "When I make you and yes, about then. Why?" He stepped back into the room and glared at Sherlock. "Good sex doesn't take hours."

"I said nothing."

"You didn't need to. It was right there on your face," said John and walked back in the kitchen to organise tea. "Look, I had a good night. No-one died and everyone was happy."

"Clearly you're far more efficient than I expected," said Sherlock. He looked up sharply. "A speech therapist?"

John walked back in with two cups and replaced the one by Sherlock's chair. "Yeah. Why?"

Sherlock smirked and took a sip. "Nothing," he said and smiled beatifically at John.

"What?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Lots of rounding her vowels then?"

John stared and Sherlock drank his tea, his expression innocent in a way that it seemed only John understood completely. "No one faked anything," John said eventually and took a drink.

"I'm sure you're an excellent lover," said Sherlock and nodded sagely. "You're considerate, experienced and adventurous outside the bedroom. I'm sure that translates inside as well."

John leaned forward. "You know the difference between you and me?"

"Oh Lord, let me count the ways," murmured Sherlock. "Do enlighten me, John. What is it that you do that makes you so different to me?"

"I like having sex," said John and Sherlock laughed. John grinned at him and took another sip of his tea. "Or you're very discreet. I can't decide which."

"Perhaps you're unobservant."

"You've said that before and I'm still not insulted," said John and tilted his head as he watched his flatmate. "Seriously? What happened to it not being your area?"

"I said girlfriends aren't my area," said Sherlock.

"And there isn't a boyfriend," said John and considered. "Still isn't?"

"I don't have time," said Sherlock. "There's just you. And you take up a ridiculous amount of memory."

"Ah," said John with a nod. He cleared his throat. "Have you said that to other people? Because it would really explain a lot."

"Other people don't interest me," said Sherlock and rolled his eyes at John's glance. "Oh don't be like that. You know what I mean."

"I thought I did," said John and frowned. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Are you looking for someone?"

"I just said I don't have time," huffed Sherlock and drained the cup. He held it out toward John. "Another one would be lovely."

John shook his head. "Not now," he said and stood up. "I'm going to grab a shower. Get to bed."

He stepped toward the bathroom and ignored the proffered cup. Sherlock might need tea but John's body had reminded him that he wasn't nineteen anymore and a good hot shower might just soak through the muscles he'd used. John stepped into the shower and closed his eyes, letting the hot water blast over his skin while he mentally replayed the better parts of the evening. He liked being appreciated. He liked being touched and held and being told he was doing well. He really liked being touched and being able to be touched back.

His hand slipped down to his groin and John touched the flesh that still tingled and felt sensitive to the touch. He wrapped his fingers round and rested his head against the tile. Being touched always worked for John, not always just his dick but anywhere on his body. Being touched felt like being seen and John wanted very much to be significant. Each date he went on he hoped that this time he would find someone who saw him completely. Michelle wasn't that person, though he wouldn't mind seeing her again. No-one had been the person so far and so John dreamed of having someone who would know him so intimately that they'd touch him in all the right places.

He stroked lightly, fingers gripping the heavy length as he let the water splash over his skin. His hair stuck to his scalp and he spread his feet against the edge of the cubicle as he moved. When it came down to it, John knew how he liked it better than he could explain it and Michelle, while she was indeed a wonderful woman, was not intuitive enough to know what John liked best. No one had been so far and John groaned as his fingers quickened.

He'd intended to use the night's best bits as spank bank material for this, especially bare breasts that bounced when she laughed. He wanted to be thinking about that, but John flashed on a long stretch of neck, curved in to play a violin and he blinked. The tiles were very white in front of his eyes and when he closed his eyes again, he could visualise it again. It wasn't the first time he'd thought about Sherlock's throat and he was certain it wouldn't be the last, but given he'd actually had sex this evening, John wasn't at all sure that it should be what his dick should be reacting to best of all.

Still, a hard dick had no conscience whatsoever and, confident that his thoughts were his own, John shifted focus again and slid his fingers easily over the hard length of his erection. He'd thought about touching, about licking Sherlock's throat so many times he could have kept his own bar chart. He knew that peak times came when they were in the middle of a case and Sherlock was on fire. John found himself dropping words like 'amazing' and 'brilliant' instead of leaping on the man. He found himself staring when he should be thinking.

Doing it in public was bad. Indulging in a little wank in the privacy of his own shower was very good indeed and the night's adventures with a one date girlfriend faded away quickly as John replayed the flashes of skin he had. He fixated on Sherlock's throat, then his mouth as he sipped his tea. A perfect mouth that was used to explode with wonder and insults and John reveled in every bit of it. His hand worked faster and his dick throbbed until he was almost there and as the cold water cut in, he yelled loudly and dropped his hand.

"For fuck's sake," he snapped and swiped at his eyes to brush the water away. He grabbed a towel and stomped out of the bathroom with it wrapped round his hips. Sherlock was filling the kettle from the sink in the kitchen when John walked in. The detective glanced over at his flatmate and raised an eyebrow.

"I thought you'd finished."

"Obviously not," said John and pointed at the taps. "You just switched them on when I was washing."

Sherlock twitched a smile at the corner of his mouth. "That's not what you were doing."

John glanced down at his still healthy erection, barely hidden by the towel. He tugged the material tighter to very little effect and looked back at Sherlock. "Not the point. You knew I was still in there."

"I miscalculated," said Sherlock and set the kettle on to boil. "Usually you use the shower for seven minutes, unless you're masturbating and then it's twelve. Naturally I thought tonight would be a seven minute affair." He glanced toward John's groin and then up to his eyes. "You said it was a good night."

"Stop monitoring my showers," said John and realised he was dripping onto the carpet. He huffed and then pulled the towel off to rub at his skin, determined to be unembarrassed by his own nakedness. Sherlock had no doubt seen him naked before. He'd seen Sherlock naked before. He'd stored it in the bank, but he hadn't thought it out of the ordinary, unlike this. "It's not healthy."

"It's observation," pointed out Sherlock. "I wouldn't mind if you kept an eye on how long I spend in the shower."

John scrubbed over his hair and looked back at the man, noticing only now that Sherlock had stilled entirely and appeared to be following the movement of John's hand. Everywhere, it seemed, from the hair that John dried on his head, his chest and his groin, even the heavy flank of muscle in his thighs. John paused and gestured with the towel. "Normal people don't keep check on how often their flatmate has a wank."

Sherlock's teeth caught his bottom lip briefly. "What boring lives they must lead," he said and stepped closer to John. "Perhaps I was wrong."

"Yes, I should think so."

"Not about the shower," said Sherlock and reduced the distance between them. "About who faked what."

John rolled his eyes. "Men don't fake orgasms, Sherlock. They just don't."

"Well that's not true," said Sherlock and licked his bottom lip as he looked at John. "They do think about other things, though. Other people."

John huffed. "We've all been in that position."

"I haven't."

"Yes, well you're special," said John and stood his ground. Scarcely six inches of air stood between Sherlock and John's still damp torso and John was damned if he had to be the one to give way. He could touch Sherlock, at this distance, just put one hand out and touch the man, feel the muscle behind the shirt when it tugged tight in all directions. He could, but he wouldn't, not tonight. Not when his dick still felt like it had business to tend to and Sherlock could only think of tea and what John might have done wrong on his brilliant date. He raised his chin. "You probably think of yourself."

"No," said Sherlock and tilted his head as he watched John. "I don't."

John watched, unable to help himself as Sherlock's tongue made an all too brief appearance. He found himself licking his own lip in return. All he had to do was ask. Just one question and John would know the truth that he'd spent studiously avoiding for the past eighteen months. One question and John's dating career might come to a standstill.

So might everything else.

He cleared his throat and looked back up at Sherlock. "Fine. Make your tea. I'm going to bed."

John turned on his heel and headed for the stairs. Some questions just shouldn't be asked at all and while Michelle might not work out, he could always find someone else who might just make John feel a little bit special. That feeling shouldn't be reserved for his flatmate, even if he did become John's only masturbation material, no matter how many women John slept with. While it stayed in John's head he was safe and he resolved to sleep, ignore all of this and smile at some other girl tomorrow.

So decided, John went to bed with an uncomfortable ache in his lower belly and a dick that reminded him he was still owed five more minutes in the shower.

He could always get another date.


	2. The Illustrator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John rolls home from another date. Sherlock has been productive. John is still not sleeping with Sherlock.
> 
> But oh, he wants to!
> 
> ~
> 
> John cursed as he realised that he had left his underpants in the well kept apartment of a children's illustrator.
> 
> The problem with leaving at three in the morning is that you couldn't turn the light on without disturbing the bed's other occupant. You couldn't do much more than hope you'd grabbed everything you owned and prayed you didn't put your foot on something awkward when you left. John had done the dance often enough that he had left everything to hand in spite of the night's passion, (however misguided that was) and this was the first time he returned home missing something more significant than a tube ticket.

John cursed as he realised that he had left his underpants in the well kept apartment of a children's illustrator.

The problem with leaving at three in the morning is that you couldn't turn the light on without disturbing the bed's other occupant. You couldn't do much more than hope you'd grabbed everything you owned and prayed you didn't put your foot on something awkward when you left. John had done the dance often enough that he had left everything to hand in spite of the night's passion, (however misguided _that_ was) and this was the first time he returned home missing something more significant than a tube ticket.

He took his shoes off at the bottom of the stairs and padded up as quietly as he could manage to his flat. He hoped Sherlock was either in bed or out or even doing something unspeakable to the kitchen cabinets. John really hoped that he'd be able to sneak up to bed, but their door swung open when he pushed it and he knew his luck was out completely. Still, John Watson had come home a conquering hero more than once and the walk of shame had left him fully dressed, if a little rumpled and he wouldn't be the first man to walk through these doors entirely commando.

"Sherlock?"

John glanced round at their living room and wondered why there were so many pieces of paper screwed into balls on the carpet. The flat was rarely tidy but all rubbish eventually went in the bin. This morning, apparently, was different and John picked up a crumpled ball. His fingers barely moved to open it when Sherlock plucked it clean out of his fingers and started to sweep the rest up into a wicker basket.

"You're up early," said Sherlock and John blinked.

"Haven't been to bed yet," said John and watched Sherlock scoop everything up, plucking one piece from a ridiculously high bookshelf.

John tilted his head to watch. Something about Sherlock just bent itself to watching the man bend and stretch. His arms appeared slightly too long, his outstretched fingers elegant as they ran across spines of books and occasionally ex-humans. Watching Sherlock had become more than just an occupational hazard for John and he had determined to build in some advantages. He watched Sherlock closely when the man wasn't looking, every nuance of Sherlock's movement compiled in John's private database, carefully labelled 'use when you want to come quickly'.

Sherlock turned and sniffed the air deliberately and John felt very conscious that he hadn't showered. He knew he smelled of sweat and sex and something Shannon referred to as a cruelty free perfume that smelled of cloves. John shifted slightly as Sherlock glanced at him and then straightened up. God only knew why John felt he had to justify his evening, but he was quite certain that everything about tonight's date had just revealed itself to his flatmate and it left John feeling defensive and just a little vulnerable. He settled his hands behind his back and nodded to the basket.

"So what's this then?" he asked. "If you're playing basket ball, I've got to tell you, you're doing it wrong."

"Research," said Sherlock and put a hand protectively over the top. "So, how was your date?"

"Good, yeah," said John and swallowed lightly when Sherlock's expression didn't change. "What kind of research?"

"You've got a bruise on your neck," said Sherlock. "Bit of a biter, this one?"

"What can I say, I bring out the animal in some women."

"So it seems," said Sherlock and narrowed his eyes. "Sit down. I'll make you tea."

John shook his head. "I'm going to bed," he said. "Get some sleep."

"No," said Sherlock. "You always have tea first, then a shower, then sleep. You're grumpy in the morning if you don't."

"It's a Sunday," said John. "I'll have a lie in."

"You don't do lie ins," said Sherlock.

"I do."

"You don't," said Sherlock and walked through to the kitchen, still gripping the basket. He dumped it on the counter as he pulled out cups and tea making paraphernalia. John followed him in, a frown lining his forehead. "You lie in bed until you hear me moving round and then come downstairs before I upset your tidying. A touch OCD, if you will."

"Wanting the kitchen free of severed human parts is not OCD," said John and leaned against the counter. "So what did you get up to last night?"

"I was productive," said Sherlock and flipped the switch on the kettle. John caught sight of the dusty black marks over Sherlock's hands and pointed.

"Productive with what?" asked John. "What's that? It looks like...soot?"

"Charcoal," said Sherlock and folded his arms, hands shoved beneath his shoulders. He stared back at John and smirked. "Forgotten something?"

"Where did you get charcoal?" asked John and frowned again. "Sorry? Forgotten what?"

Sherlock's tongue, pink and colourful in always slightly dim light of the kitchen, made a brief appearance. "Or perhaps this is a new attempt to impress?"

"Hmm?"

"What interesting jeans you're wearing, John."

John looked down at himself. The jeans were at least three months old and slightly ragged at the bottom, but perfectly suitable for an evening ice skating with a pretty young woman. They were comfortable and slightly tighter than usual, something John liked as he'd been told his bum looked really good in them. They outlined his thighs too and only as he tracked upward did light dawn.

"Ah," he said and lifted a hand. He was about to cover up the obvious and flattering outline of his dick when he realised Sherlock's expression went beyond a smirk. Just a touch, just a flash of something more than amusement behind those tilted eyes and John settled his hand on his belt instead, hooking his thumb in as he gave a casual shrug.

"I'll pick up a new pair," he said. "They're only cheap."

"Out on a date in cheap underwear," said Sherlock. "That's not like you."

"Oh, it's not like me, is it?" asked John. "You tracking that as well?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned back to the kettle to make tea up. "I don't need to keep track," he said. "I just know."

"Well you don't need to," huffed John. "Surely it's another thing that clogs up that massive brain of yours. Just delete it."

"Not as easy as that," said Sherlock and set the cups on the table. "Sit down, if you can."

"Of _course_ I can," said John and pulled out a chair. He leaned in closer to the table and sank down into the seat. He set his elbows on the table and looked over at Sherlock. He felt disproportionately rumpled, compared to his flatmate but at least John's fingers didn't look like he'd been rubbing them down in a bag of coal. "Seriously, charcoal?"

"I needed it," said Sherlock and blew lightly over the top of his cup to cool it. "Tell me, John, since the evening ended in her bedroom, why are you not still there? Did she send you home?"

John shook his head. "She needed her sleep. I didn't want to wake her."

Sherlock chuckled and John stared. "Oh I _see_."

"No, you don't."

Sherlock nodded and leaned forward across the table. "What was the noise?"

John laughed nervously and took a drink. "I don't...What noise? There was no noise."

"Or did she call out someone else's name?" asked Sherlock before he grinned. "Oh, a squeaky noise _and_ she called out someone else's name. An old boyfriend?"

"Stop it."

"Her own name? Oh, now, wait. Wait!" Sherlock grinned across his cup. "She didn't call out a name at all. She said-"

"She cried out 'Ay Carumba' when she came," sighed John and at Sherlock's amusement, he couldn't stamp down on the giggle. He tried hard to get a grip on himself but the control wouldn't come and he shook his head. "It's not funny."

"Not at all," said Sherlock as he took another drink. "It's perfectly acceptable to go to bed with a woman who makes squeaky noises and does impersonations of Bart Simpson at the point of climax."

"Oh God, the noise," giggled John and set the cup down on the table in case he spilled it. "Sounded like the sofa springs when you bounce on them."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I don't bounce."

"You do when you're excited," said John. "I tell you what, trying to get it on with a girl when she's making the same noises as you is not easy."

He grinned as he said it but Sherlock's smile gave him slight pause. Because John was not thinking about Sherlock in the slightest when he took his pants off. He was busy giving his all to a woman who spoke nonstop about her previous experiences in the dating game and made John want to gag her. John didn't often go to bed with women who bored him, but he'd spent the past week trailing after Sherlock and becoming far too familiar with the shape of Sherlock's bum when he bent over to pick up something essential and invisible.

John couldn't shake the image, no matter how hard he tried. Sherlock's bum in black trousers, Sherlock's bum in pajamas and the night before last, Sherlock's bare rear view when he walked out of his bedroom and padded down to the bathroom for a late shower. That experience had left John clenched and panting and he  had deliberately turned on his heel and headed back to his room, one hand down the front of his jeans to touch and squeeze and deal with the ache of wanting to touch a man he had explicitly agreed not to.

What had become clear last night is that going on a date with Shannon hadn't worked. Sex was asked for and provided and while Shannon was welcoming and warm, John had been unable to step away entirely from his batch of Sherlock based imagery. Enjoying sex had started to become dependent on calling up a memory of something he'd seen Sherlock do, down to the squeak of sofa springs when he bounced. Worse still, John had long since imagined more. When he grasped Shannon's hands the night before he had to bite down on the disappointment that they weren't longer, stronger and couldn't grip back more tightly.

That she wasn't someone else.

John took a slow breath and picked up his tea from the table. "Well, I won't be seeing her again. I'll call her later and thank her for a nice night."

"How very generous of you," said Sherlock and set his cup down. "Well, I'm going to bed. Try to keep the noise down when you shower, John. I'll keep the taps off. Promise."

John nodded as Sherlock left the room and stared down into his tea. He was caught again, doing one person and thinking about another and John was worried that it had become a habit. One he could cope with, certainly, but not one he should have. He sighed, drained the cup and dumped both in the sink before he turned to leave. His elbow caught the wicker basket and he grabbed it quickly before it could fall.

A single ball of crumpled paper fell to the floor and John bent to pick it up. His fingers hovered over the wicker basket before he gave in to his own curiosity and straightened out the paper. Across its surface were doodles, great looping swirls clearly created in charcoal. John had seen something similar on the wall at Shannon's house, the skill greater, but a similar pattern. Intrigued, he set the basket on the table and unscrewed a few more. The pattern was familiar, but the artist's hand different. He caught sight of a few of the characters Shannon drew and although Sherlock was clearly no illustrator, they were technically accurate.

Other pieces revealed stick figures and shading attempts and John stared at them, tried to pick up on why they existed. Each piece of paper revealed more of the same, lines and shading and he was about to dump them all back and pretend ignorance when the last showed him something else entirely. Like the other pieces, this sketch was lines and shadow, but it crystallised into what had been attempted all along. Here lay a sketch of the artist's own upper thigh, the soft place where leg met belly and to the left, the shape and texture of the artist's penis.

John swallowed as he stared at the charcoal smears. He knew this part of Sherlock, but only at a distance. He'd seen and he'd registered but he hadn't looked in such detail. He knew there was a mark to the left of Sherlock's hip bone, but he hadn't seen it drawn like this, he hadn't seen anything this close up and his dick gave a heavy throb beneath his jeans. John caught his bottom lip in his teeth and reached down. He unfastened the loose buttons quickly and wrapped his hand round, one hand set on the table by the flattened paper.

He stroked quickly, the memory of being with Shannon wiped in a single stroke as he saw what Sherlock saw. For a moment, etched out in charcoal, he and Sherlock saw the same thing, wanted to capture the same thing. John's little finger pressed against the edge of the sheet as his other hand drew up, fingers surrounding the silky head as he focused. The slick liquid coated John's fingertips as he stroked, the shaft hard beneath the soft skin that covered it and still John stared at the outline of Sherlock's penis.

He pressed his hand flat over the drawing as he reached the edge of an orgasm that seemed to draw deep. He didn't groan, but his mouth opened wide as he saw clearly how it would be to touch Sherlock. Just to think about touching the man reduced John to this and he closed his eyes tight as he came. Wet and slippery pools spilled over the papers on the table and John dropped forward, his head hanging against his chest as he tried to get his breath back.

In the quiet of the kitchen and at this ungodly hour, John heard the breathing that shadowed his own. He turned his head, looked to the doorway where the silhouette of his flatmate and untouchable friend stood out from the light of the living room. He stared until Sherlock stepped forward, became real under the light of the kitchen and reached out for the paper that littered the table.

"I'll just clear this away," said Sherlock with a slight smile. He reached over and drew everything, paper, charcoal and semen from the surface and John couldn't move. Sherlock's hand brushed the underneath of John's arm as he took the last pieces and the contact felt unbearable. John closed his eyes, registering the contact before Sherlock stood back up again.

"Not like you to tidy," John managed and Sherlock smiled as he gathered everything in the basket.

"Not like you to ignore the shower," he said and leaned close enough to John that he could feel Sherlock's breath on his cheek. "I don't see what's so difficult about drawing," he said. "When you have the right subject, it's easy."

John cleared his throat and turned his head, lips close to Sherlock's own. Not quite close enough to kiss, but it would take the slightest inclination of his head to make that contact. "Self portrait?" he asked and Sherlock smiled. The taste of his mouth was there for the taking and John could not.

"This time," said Sherlock. "I lacked a volunteer."

John licked his lip and forced himself to stand up straight. He fastened his jeans quickly and stepped back from Sherlock. "That's your choice," said John and smiled briefly before he walked the other side of the table and up to the bathroom. He showered quickly, methodically and was clean and out in under three minutes. His head was still damp when it hit the pillow and John closed his eyes tight, refusing steadfastly to believe that this night had happened. He was efficient and capable and intended to wake up later with this memory pushed away with the others.

The illustrator hadn't done the trick. John intended to find the one who would.

He planned never to discover where Sherlock kept the wicker basket.

Unless he had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your very kind words and the kudos. All is very much appreciated and helps keep me going. All comments very very welcome!
> 
> I hope very much that you like this chapter.


	3. The aerobics instructor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's latest date has rendered him a little bit broken, physically. Sherlock offers his own brand of assistance.
> 
> Oh and they both get very naked.
> 
> ~

It rained heavily as John pushed open the front door of 221B and his already sweat slicked skin was soaked.

Pippa had come near to breaking him. The woman did not understand that even enthusiastic doctors had limits to their stamina and by the time she'd attempted to mount up for a third go round, John had politely made his excuses and tried to leave. The aerobics instructor refused to believe he was ready to go, so John had less politely grabbed his things and been thrown out the door. His cheek stung where she slapped him and his hips ached from the frenetic thrusting he'd been ever so slightly uncomfortable with. John had never been a slouch in the bedroom, even when his leg was at its worst, but being almost bent in two hurt and John had seen enough real world pain to want to bring it sex at its finest.

His legs felt stiff as he walked up the stairs and John had already decided he would break up with Pippa before he reached the fifth riser. John loved sex, but any sex that made him feel an old man had to be out and he considered himself fortunate that he'd found out before she started in on the tantric stuff she'd alluded to earlier in the evening. He was absolutely certain that he couldn't take more than half an hour of what Pippa had to offer, a whole night would have killed him.

His made his way up to the flat slowly, pausing every few steps to wonder if it was time to stop dating women below a certain age. Sherlock had called the last one Lolita on a few occasions and John admitted freely that the age difference had been too much. He'd mentioned watching The Empire Strikes back at the cinema and she'd asked if had been in black and white. He'd made his excuses on the night and left her in pursuit of the bendy Pippa a few days later. All had gone well until she'd taken John to bed and broken parts of him he wasn't actually sure were breakable.

Sherlock had for once locked the door to their flat and John groaned as he had to push a hand into his pocket and find his key. The effort it took to get it out and turn it felt to be far too much, and John hoped that his flatmate was intuitive enough to make tea when he heard John's footsteps. He would like that, but doubted it would happen and realistically John just wanted the floor to be clear of all obstacles so he could collapse on the sofa until his body recovered.

Tea was not an immediate option when he walked inside the flat. The kettle was not on and the cups were still in the cupboard. While the front room was wonderfully free of any of Sherlock's experiments, the door to Sherlock's bedroom was wide open, providing a glimpse of the inner sanctum of his flatmate. Only a glimpse, as Sherlock's hands gripped the lintel above the door and his knees were currently tucked in against his chest.

John watched as Sherlock stretched out and drew his feet up again, swinging with remarkable ease from left to right. He's tempted to turn around to check that he walked into the flat, but Sherlock's breathing was steady and John recognised core strength training as the man moved. John had long since made himself responsible for feeding Sherlock and he was aware the man was fit enough to run along the streets of London at a moment's notice. He'd known all of that and had made mental notes that Sherlock was wiry rather than skinny, but he'd never seen him do anything to maintain his physical condition.

He stood, jaw dropped for what felt like hours, as Sherlock took his time to complete the pattern. Only when Sherlock dropped down to the floor and flexed his fingers did John blink and bring himself back to the present. He cleared his throat and smiled at his flatmate. "I didn't know you owned sweat pants."

"What else would I wear?" asked Sherlock and bent to pick up his towel. He swiped it over his face and hair before he dropped it on the floor and reached for the bottom of his tshirt. "I thought you were on a date."

John swallowed as Sherlock dragged the sweated through tshirt over his head and dropped it in what might well have been a laundry pile. The bare skin glistened beneath the warm lights of Sherlock's room and John felt warm in places that were definitely still aching. "I was," he said and checked his watch, moving his arm gingerly. "It ended."

"Hmm," said Sherlock and tilted his head, eyes roving over John's skin before he looked him in the face again. A faint smile lit the edge of his mouth and Sherlock licked his bottom lip. "Perhaps you should have tried a warm up."

"Oh fuck off," grinned John. "You weren't there."

"Clearly," said Sherlock and stepped into John's personal space. John couldn't have moved backward even if he tried, (which he didn't) and he was very much aware that Sherlock was close to naked again and that he was sweaty and making John's body steam through the rain and stickiness that soaked his clothes. "Which round did you leave before?"

"I think it was still round one," said John and raised his hand awkwardly and set it on Sherlock's shoulder. He groaned. "Okay, if you'll just please be a normal person tonight and make me a cup of tea, I won't complain about shopping for a month."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but he nodded. "Of course," he said. "I'm not a monster."

"No, you're not," said John and groaned louder as Sherlock brushed past and knocked his aching shoulder. "You're worse."

"Says the man who can't make his way to the sofa unassisted," said Sherlock and reached for John's hand to set it round his shoulder. He settled his own hand on John's waist and walked him to the sofa carefully, pausing only when John couldn't move his feet. "Please tell me you aren't seeing her again."

"Ah, no," said John. "I think the words, out, get, fuck and the were all mentioned," said John. "I think she might be used to Olympic gymnasts."

"I can see the confusion set in," said Sherlock. "Did you meet her on the parallel bars?"

"Soho bar," said John and dropped down to the sofa as Sherlock brought his feet up. "I think I may have broken my belly."

"Not possible," said Sherlock and wrinkled his nose. "John, you smell terrible."

"It's raining out there."

"That's not what you smell of," said Sherlock and appeared to consider for a moment before he stood back up. "You should have a bath."

"Unless you've hidden one in here, that's not happening."

"I'll run you one."

John blinked as Sherlock walked out of the room, muscles flexing lightly and John resents his ability to move without feeling crippled. He hated him for being able to move without making squeaky little noises and he hated him for looking so damned good while he did it. John pouted as he lay on the sofa and listened to the bathtub being filled. He took the risk of closing his eyes and was surprised when, what felt like moments later, Sherlock grasped his shoulder and squeezed.

"John," he said and bent over him. "John, you can't sleep. I've run you a bath. It's got bubbles."

John blinked and looked up. Sherlock hadn't bothered with a shirt and the marble of his skin seemed unreal, almost entirely too perfect and John lifted his hand to touch. His fingers brushed Sherlock's collar bone. "I had the strangest dream."

"Were you in Oz?" asked Sherlock and allowed the slow caress of his skin. "Was I in it?"

"Not Oz, no," said John and tried to move, his body reminding him that the hot water was very much needed. "Not that Oz, anyway." He slid his hand to Sherlock's shoulder. "Give us a hand, would you?"

Sherlock bent to help him up again and John was relieved that the scale of his groans had been reduced by the shortest of naps. He shuffled alongside Sherlock to reach the bathroom to find that Sherlock's idea of bath time was far from perfunctory. He expected a bath full of water, possible overfilled, possibly full of the bath salts Mrs Hudson liked to foist on them. He thought he might find it boiling and that Sherlock was prepared to sit by and measure how quickly John could get his aching muscles back out again.

John was not prepared to find the lights low and a candle burning at one end of the tub. He wasn't prepared for the peppermint smell in the bathroom, or that the fluffiest towels had been taken out and laid on one side. He certainly wasn't ready to find that a man who couldn't be bothered to fetch milk from the shop could be willing to prepare something so indulgent for his friend and John struggled to turn and look up at him.

"You did this?"

"Of course," said Sherlock and reached for John's jacket. "There's a mixture of glycerine, peppermint and baking soda in the water. The baking soda will refresh your muscles so you should soak for no less than twenty five minutes, longer if you can stand it."

"Right," said John and struggled to shed his clothes. His hand was batted to one side as Sherlock pulled his jumper over his head and John found himself slightly trapped by his own tshirt. "Why do you have these things?"

"Why wouldn't I," asked Sherlock and stripped John to the waist. "You should be grateful."

"Oh I am," said John and reached for his belt. "I'm just surprised. I've had to blackmail you to make tea before."

"That was when you were entirely capable of making it yourself. Tonight you are not."

"I don't think I can climb in the bathtub," said John and sighed as his fingers refused to cooperate. "Can you give me a hand?"

Sherlock sighs and steps in front of John, drawing the belt free and dropping it to the floor. His fingers worked quickly to unfasten the buttons of John's jeans and as Sherlock worked them down over firm thighs to his knees, John leaned forward and put his hand on Sherlock's back. Sherlock's skin was beautifully smooth and John could feel the muscle working beneath his fingers as the man worked to take John's jeans off. He was efficient in this, as in all things and John smiled at the view; Sherlock Holmes was on his knees with his hands on John's calves.

John didn't think anyone else would believe this was possible. Oh sure, plenty of people assumed that they were a couple but they would never imagine this pretty little moment of domesticity and John was glad they didn't know. He had precious few things he treasured, but friends were the best part of him. Sherlock was the best part of him and John could get away with stroking Sherlock's skin in an effort to keep himself balanced while the man took his shoes and socks off.

The vibrant colour of John's underwear seemed stark in the bathroom and John caught glances of his own pants near dark curls and smiled. A little sleep had given him a dazed expectation of what was possible. No touching Sherlock in wrong places, but allowing the man to touch him was clearly a stroke of genius and John thought it was worth aching in so many places for it to happen. He smiled down at Sherlock when the man glanced up and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of John's pants.

"Do I have to time you?"

"Hmm?"

"To stay in the bathtub. Can you be trusted?"

John, loyal and clearly the most trustworthy man this side of London, was entirely capable of counting off minutes and seconds, (and even watching the clock) but he chose instead to shake his head. "I don't think I should be here alone," he said and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Is that doctor's orders?" he asked and drew his hands downward, soft cotton following slowly over John's hips.

"It probably should be, yes," said John and caught his breath. He couldn't look away from Sherlock's eyes, but he was more conscious of the feel of Sherlock's knuckles against his skin as the man drew his pants slowly down his legs. Somewhere between his thighs and his ankles, John was aware that his dick had woken up along with him and if Sherlock turned his head slightly, it would be batting him on the cheek. He swallowed, but Sherlock merely lifted each of John's feet to draw the pants off completely.

"You ready?"

John swallowed. "Always," he said and as Sherlock got back to his feet, he wanted to grab the man's fingers and wrap them round the heavy length that bounced against his belly when he breathed. It wasn't as though Sherlock could ignore the effect he'd had, but John had sworn that this wouldn't be between them. Except that right now, it was definitely between them, a solid thickness that would push against Sherlock's hip if he stepped any closer. "Help me?"

Sherlock smiled, barely more than a flick of his lips but he stepped back and drew John over to the bubbles. He wrapped an arm round John's waist and reached under the man's leg to lift him into it. John groaned at the heat of the water, sinking down until he was submerged, his head barely above the water. The water felt amazing, hot and tingly with whatever Sherlock had filled it with. His muscles didn't immediately relax but he could feel everything beginning to unclench and he sighed as he realised that the only thing still very much alert was his dick, poking up against his belly, partially hidden by bubbles.

Sherlock stood next to the tub for a moment, his hands on his hips and John grinned, all tucked up safe and warm under water. "If I ever call you selfish, feel free to remind me how good this feels."

"As if I'd forget," grins Sherlock and nods to the rubber ducky that sits on the edge of the bath near the candle. "Don't lose that."

"Scout's honour."

"And don't let the candle go out. The properties are relaxing and should do you some good."

"I'll stay right here," said John and settled his arms over his belly underwater. "Are you going to read?"

"I'm taking a shower," said Sherlock and with barely any warning whatsoever, he skinned off his sweat pants and turned to grab a towel. John blinked, unable to look away from Sherlock's back as the man moved gracefully to the shower cubicle and turned on the water. He held a hand out to catch the spray and turned back to look at John. "Are you quite comfortable?"

"Cosy," breathed John and Sherlock stepped under the spray, closing the panel to give John an opaque view of his body. John stared as the man washed up, hands rubbing over his hair and then down over his skin, fingertips elegantly soaping up his skin. He dropped his head back again to soak his hair and John was lost.

It possibly wasn't the smartest move to stroke himself under the water, but John couldn't care less. His best friend, his beautiful, untouchable best friend stood under the shower and made him melt. John's dick throbbed in time to the beat of John's heart and he couldn't breathe. He could hear his heartbeat, loud in his ears and he couldn't look away from Sherlock at all. He moved his hand quicker, squeezing and tugging at his own skin so that he could finish this before the water turned off.

John's focus had always been intense and he groaned as he watched the shape of Sherlock's hand wash his groin, a feathery spray of dark hair across the man's skin and the untouched but seen length of his dick. John wanted, desperately wanted to touch that skin, to feel it lengthen in his fingers and become a solid reality of Sherlock's desire. He couldn't see properly through the glass, couldn't tell whether Sherlock was unaffected by John, but he wanted to believe it was the truth.

He dropped his head back against the bathtub as he came, catching the viscous liquid with a trembling hand. John groaned loudly, confident that the shower would drown the noise and for a second he could do nothing but revel in having reached a much more satisfying climax. He quickly grabbed for the towel on the radiator and wiped his fingers clean before he slipped lower into the water. His eyes stayed closed as he heard the spray turn off and the shiver he gave as the shower door opened was hidden beneath the bubbles.

"John," said Sherlock and John risked opening an eye.

"I'm relaxing," he said and Sherlock, towel wrapped round his hips and a smaller one scrubbed over his hair, raised an eyebrow.

"Really?" he asked. "You seem far more tense now."

"Nope, definitely relaxed," said John and Sherlock grinned. "I'll probably be fine for a little sleep. You've done quite enough already."

Sherlock twitched a quick smile. "So I see," he said and dumped a thick towel within reach of the tub. "Oh and John?"

"Hmm?"

"Try not to wipe your come on a clean towel next time," said Sherlock. "There are much better places for that."

He closed the door behind him, leaving John wide eyed, open mouthed and steaming beneath peppermint bubble bath.


	4. The Dog Groomer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has yet another date with a dog groomer. Sherlock appears to have acquired a new pet.
> 
> Shenanigans, honestly, some honesty.
> 
> And just a little bit of UST
> 
> ~

John suspicions rose when he discovered the hamster.

In the past few months he had taken out several women, none of whom he ever planned to see again. That was life and though mildly disappointed, John was ever the optimist and knew that somewhere out there had to be the love of his life. He knew he could find them if only he had enough time and was willing enough to risk smiling at another one. He'd smiled only three days before and another woman had agreed to join John for dinner. She was a pretty thing, all nut brown curls and rosy cheeks and a slightly saucy lilt to her accent that John thought was enchanting.

His head was back in the game and he planned to take her to a pleasant restaurant, (not too expensive but hardly Burger King) and find out a little more about her and maybe, just maybe he could take her to bed if he managed to laugh at all the right moments. If he'd been a stunningly attractive man, the trick wouldn't work, but being good looking in a normal, almost ordinary way worked well for John and he managed to sneak in, bed them and head home, usually without being thrown out first. He was an expert in getting on with women, even if he could get only get on with them on a short term basis.

If Sherlock ever put his mind to dating, John was sure they'd never know what had hit them. He didn't do anything without calculating the odds of success and John had sometimes questioned whether Sherlock was capable of playing the long game. He got bored too quickly and John had started to wonder if it was contagious because as much as he wanted to find the one, he kept finding Ms One Night Stand instead.

Tonight's date didn't hold too much promise in the long term. He knew that Karen was thoroughly invested in her business, and although John didn't know how anyone could spend that long talking about the proper grooming and training of dogs, he thought perhaps her passion itself could be interesting. He quite liked dogs, at least those he could remember from his childhood, however Karen mentioned that she had four of them at home and he wasn't at all sure that he could compete with the loyalty and affection a pack could supply.

He was fine with that, well aware that the evening would at least be a distraction from the bigger puzzle he was dealing with. John knew he couldn't compete on Sherlock's intellectual level in most things, but he was far from a stupid man and though he admitted he'd been slow he could see a definite pattern emerging. It didn't seem to matter who he went for dinner with or what they did, on his return Sherlock proved each time that whatever John's date could offer, Sherlock could do at least one better.

He'd proved it and John reacted very physically to each reminder. His dick had started to spring to attention at the very thought of what Sherlock might do next. So while he prepared to get ready for his date, his head was very much on what he'd find on his return. Last time he'd been treated to the devastating display of physical prowess and the sneaky warmth of the bubble bath. He still couldn't quite think about that without blushing. John knew Sherlock was competing, but couldn't quite put his finger on what the prize was. 

He half suspected it might be to get rid of the distraction of women in John's life so that he would be available all the time. Sometimes when it came to Sherlock, John really just didn't know. He half expected Sherlock to show a sudden talent for dog grooming, but that didn't seem to be the case. Instead there was a cage in the front room and a hamster was steadily running round a wheel, oblivious to just how mad its current caretaker was.

John fastened his tie in front of the mirror and turned as Sherlock walked back in, brandishing a carrot.

"Is that for a case?"

"It's for the hamster."

"Yes, I gathered it's for the hamster. I mean, what's the hamster for?"

Sherlock looked at him briefly and then turned back to the cage. "They can be trained."

"Right," said John. "But he's not about to assist us on a case."

He grinned at Sherlock, but the man had sliced the carrot into bite sized chunks and fed them into the cage carefully, his eyes focused on the tiny rodent.

"Is he?"

"Of course he's not," said Sherlock and gestured as the hamster ate. "I borrowed him."

"From who?" asked John. "Don't tell me you've picked it up from some kid's house."

"All right."

"Sherlock? You didn't, right?"

Sherlock glanced at him and checked the water levels. "Mrs Hudson's great nephew is staying for a few days," he said. "He traded the hamster for a sword."

"A sword? You traded a sword? A real one or...Sherlock, please tell me it was plastic."

Sherlock sniffed. "What would I do with a plastic sword? Or for that matter, what would he do?" He shook his head when John stared. "Don't worry. The blade's kept sharp."

"God, Sherlock, you can't do that." John took a quick breath and headed to the stairs.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to tell Mrs Hudson that you've kidnapped her nephew's hamster and then we're going to give it back."

Sherlock reached out to grab his arm and shook his head. "I only wanted it for tonight. I'll give it back tomorrow."

John stared. "No. This has to stop now."

"What do you mean?" asked Sherlock. "It won't bother you. You're going out."

"I mean all of this," said John and gestured to the cage. "I go out with a dog groomer, you get a hamster. I take an aerobics instructor out, you start doing calisthenics."

"I was strengthening my core."

"And when I date an illustrator you start doodling... _things_." John cleared his throat. "I get it. You're brilliant at everything. You don't need to take this to the extreme. Put the damned hamster back."

Sherlock took a quick breath. "I needed the hamster."

"You don't," said John. "No one needs a hamster and moreover the hamster _really_ doesn't need you. You'll only test it for poisons," he said and glanced at the carrot. "Oh no, don't say you did."

"Only a sedative," said Sherlock. "And they weren't _things_."

"I'm well aware of what they were," said John. "It's all right. I get it. I do. And you don't have to worry. I'll always be on hand."

"I'm not worried."

"Good."

"But you're not."

"Not what?"

"On hand," said Sherlock. "It's inconvenient."

"Because I'm on a date?" asked John. "Look, we do things without each other. You bugger off God knows where when it suits you. I'm just heading down to Strada. If you need me, you know how to get hold of me. I can't count how many times I've left some poor woman to come and pull your phone out of your pocket."

"Seventeen," said Sherlock and John nodded.

"Yes, and it's much easier when you keep it in your jacket and not your trousers, Sherlock. Honestly, you could get it yourself."

Sherlock draws himself up. "But you have free hands."

"So do you!"

John took a quick breath and stepped back from Sherlock. "Look, all I'm saying is that you don't have to feel threatened. I'm just trying to get a girlfriend, that's all."

"You don't need a girlfriend."

"I want one," said John. "I like having a girlfriend."

"Really? And will this girlfriend approve of your habit of masturbating over me whenever you can?"

The silence felt enormous. John recovered slowly, straightened up and nodded. "That was not something I meant to..." he looked back at Sherlock. "It just happened to be when you were around, that's all. Couple of blokes sharing a flat, it was bound to happen."

"Really, John, that's pathetic even for you."

"I'm pathetic?" John shook his head. "Well, that's just fine then. I'm not the one stealing hamsters from twelve year olds, am I?"

"No," said Sherlock, his voice a scant notch louder. "You're going on a date with a woman you're barely interested in so that you can have unsatisfying sex with her and claim your latent heterosexuality!"

"Fuck off!" snapped John and reached for his phone. "She's a nice girl."

"Oh God, spare me," said Sherlock. "Save me from your _nice_ girlfriends!"

"Well you don't have to worry about that," said John. "I wouldn't bring her within a mile of you."

"Strada is less than a mile away."

"Fine," said John and made a serious effort to get in control of his temper. "I'll take her somewhere else."

"You won't," said Sherlock and as John turned and walked to the door, he cleared his throat. "You won't."

"Watch me!"

He was almost out the door when he heard it. Quiet and almost underplayed but clearly audible.

"Don't go."

"What?" asked John over his shoulder. "Did you ask me something then?"

"I'm not asking again."

"Right," said John. "Because you don't do that."

He looked at Sherlock, seeing and finally observing. The man had stripped off his jacket but was fully dressed on a day when he hadn't left the flat. He'd shaved, his hair looked like it had seen a comb and John could see the way the curls tucked in toward his forehead. He'd even put John's favourite shoes on, and it should really have concerned John that he had a favourite, but it didn't. Sherlock's trousers were neat and pressed and betraying the fact that his interest in the evening was at least piqued.

John blinked and looked back up at Sherlock's face. "Ah," he said. "I'm going to say something really stupid like, 'you get off on this'."

"Maybe not as stupid as everything else you've said." Sherlock folds his arms. "Are you going out?"

"I've booked a table."

"Four canines, John," said Sherlock. "One's a wolfhound."

"She's expecting me."

"She smells of dog."

"She does not," said John and grinned. "Look, I'll be back later."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Pointless."

"You'll be fine."

"I'll drug the hamster."

"You've already drugged the hamster," said John and checked his wallet. "Sherlock, where're my cards?"

Sherlock let out a vague hum and turned his back. "Wherever you left them."

"I left them in my wallet," said John. "You've bloody planned this."

"Planned what?"

"This," said John. "Making me stay home. All the grief you've given me about-"

"About you preferring to spend your time with me."

"Yes," said John and sighed heavily before he offered a sheepish grin. "Yes, Sherlock. That."

Sherlock turned and stepped over to John, one hand on his elbow as he drew him further into the flat. "I do need you, John."

"I'm sure you do," said John and looked up at Sherlock. "Are we talking about me replacing the skull?"

"I never wanted to bend the skull over my bed," said Sherlock in what John supposed was a reassuring manner. "Does that help?"

"I think," said John and nodded sagely. "I think I'd better send a text."

"I could do it."

"No," said John. "You'll tell her I've got the plague."

"Not at all," said Sherlock. "I thought perhaps a dog allergy?"

"No," said John and fired off a quick text to Karen, apologising far more than was really necessary. Not the real reason either, though he thought that it would be far more socially acceptable to tell her something had come up without mentioning it was his flatmate's penis.

He dropped the phone to the table and turned back to Sherlock. "Right. I'm not going out. Happy?"

Sherlock smiled and glanced toward the cage. "Yes," he said. "Fred has fallen off the wheel."

"Is that a euphemism?"

"No, the hamster, John," said Sherlock and stepped to the cage. He reached in and listened to the little creature for a heartbeat. "I was correct."

"There's a surprise," said John and cleared his throat. "So, I'm home."

"Yes."

"On a date night."

"So you are," said Sherlock and stepped away from the cage. "Now, would you like to do this without pretending?"

"Do what?" asked John and grinned at Sherlock's expression. "Ah, that. Yes, well I'd like to. But I haven't done that with anyone who had the same equipment."

"I assure you, mine is in excellent condition," said Sherlock and smiled. "I'll show you."

He reached to take John's hand and John watched as his hand was held, long digits sliding along his own and here at last was something that made sense. His flatmate, his insanely wonderful and confident flatmate had indeed been competing for something Sherlock considered important. John hadn't ever quite thought that it was him in this way; he'd always assumed the attraction was one sided, that he could write it off as Sherlock not wanting this level of intimacy.

But John was wrong and not unhappy with this outcome at all. His body wasn't unhappy at all and he could feel the heat of Sherlock's skin as the man stood close, apparently trying to work out which bit of John he wanted to devour first. John had some ideas, but as much as he wanted to take his clothes off, as much as he wanted to get down and dirty with Sherlock, he did have standards and he grinned up at his friend.

"Someone's in a good mood," said Sherlock and reached out, hand on John's cheek. "I knew you would be when opened your eyes."

"I'm looking," said John and leaned in closer, inhaling the scent of Sherlock's aftershave and what may or may not have been berries for the hamster. "And you're mad, you know that? You could have just said."

Sherlock grinned and kissed him. John closed his eyes at the contact, relishing the first kiss with a new person, one he'd wanted and hadn't been able to ask for. He liked the feel of Sherlock's lips against his own and he really liked the way Sherlock licked at his bottom lip, tasting him until John just wanted more of it back. John stretched a hand up to ruffle through curls and grip the man's neck. He pulled Sherlock closer and he could feel the heat of his friend's skin through his clothes and John felt like he was melting.

Sherlock licked his lip and drew back, his hand still wrapped round John's.

"Come to bed with me."

John practically beamed but he shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "We've only just snogged."

"And then bed," said Sherlock. "I've put fresh sheets on."

"We haven't even been on a date," said John and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You killed a man for me," said Sherlock. "You know all about me."

"Yes, but I'd like to seduce you," said John. "Give a bloke a chance."

Sherlock stared. "I'm willing to strip here," he said. "How much luck do you think you need?"

John cleared his throat and reached for his coat. "I've got a table at Strada," he said and nodded to Sherlock. "Come on, you can come as my date. I'm not so easily rushed into bed."

"Of course you are, John. Those women have all had you and it's _my_ turn," said Sherlock, sighing when John handed him his scarf. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," said John and winked as he offered his arm. "I promise I'll let you try and ravish me over the tiramasu."

"You're a tease, John Watson."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm an arse," said John and grabbed the hamster cage. "We're going to drop this off on the way though."

Sherlock shook his head and followed. "I didn't know you were such an animal lover, John."

"I just want to see what you do with that sword," said John and grinned. "Come on, _boyfriend_."

He chuckled as Sherlock shuddered, imagining all the words the man could come up with which were better, if not yet technically accurate.

Sometimes, John really loved technicalities.


	5. The Consulting Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock finally go on a date. John knows how dates should go, but Sherlock has his own ideas.
> 
> Dinner. Cabs. Plans. Smut.
> 
> ~

John at least had been in this situation before. He had been on more dates than he suspected he'd had hot dinners this year. He'd walked through the doors of various restaurants across London with various women and he knew exactly how dates should go. A little light conversation, some casual flirting over each course, attention to detail on what his date ate and what they did and then, if he was really lucky, a kiss before he saw them to the door. If he was really lucky, (and John found that quite often he was) a kiss before the pants ended up on the bed knob and sometimes one afterward as well.

He knew how this all worked, and yet when John walked into the restaurant, ready to speak to the Maitre d', he'd barely opened his mouth before Sherlock stepped forward and demanded that table for Watson should be on the dais at the back. John frowned as Sherlock offered his most ingratiating smile, leaving John to follow along behind as they were shown to the requested table. He hadn't even sat down as Sherlock ordered wine that John hadn't heard of. He'd often trailed behind Sherlock on cases but never on an actual date and John wasn't quite sure if he should step up, take control and essentially put himself back in the position he was used to or just enjoy being dated.

"Do sit down, John," said Sherlock and when John looked round, Sherlock had drawn his chair out.

"That's new," he said and sat down in the chair as Sherlock swept round gracefully. "You've never done that before."

"Of course I have," said Sherlock and sat down, his chair at an angle toward John. "I'm often considerate of your needs."

"Uh, no, you're not, but that's fine," said John and smiled. "But thank you."

Sherlock grinned back. "You're welcome," he said and rested his elbows on the table. "Now what do you plan to start with?"

"Haven't looked at the menu yet," said John and Sherlock steepled his fingertips under his chin and watched John carefully.

"Not salad," said Sherlock. "You're not a salad kind of man and while you've always had a hearty appetite, you don't want to stuff yourself in case tonight gets very physical, which I can assure you it undoubtedly will. You might look at the antipasto to share, but suspect that I will take all the parts you enjoy most and while you are clearly a generous lover, you prefer not to share food. Judging by your wallet, which was wonderfully stacked with notes as well as the cards I returned, you intend to indulge." He sat up straighter and grinned brightly as the waiter walked toward them with menus. "My companion will start with the polpette."

"Sir?" asked the waiter and John nodded and took the proffered menu.

"Thanks, we'll just be a few minutes."

The waiter nodded and stepped away as John turned back to Sherlock and flicked open the menu. "You don't know what I want."

"I always know," said Sherlock and put the menu flat on the table. "Don't bother with the Bruschetta, it won't fill you up."

"I didn't know that was the plan," huffed John before he looked over the menu at Sherlock. "I'm not that predictable."

"I didn't say you were predictable, I said you'd like the polpette," said Sherlock. "And you will."

"Not the point," said John. "How am I supposed to be enigmatic and mysterious if I can't even hide what starter I want?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and leaned forward. "I was demonstrating how well I know you."

"You were showing off."

"Isn't that what you do on a date?" asks Sherlock and John stared before he chuckled. "Of course, when you follow with ravioli..."

John rolled his eyes and looked down the menu as carefully as he could. "Okay, my turn."

"At what?"

John took a quick breath and then nodded to the waiter. The young man slinked over and smiled a little too pleasantly at him. "Are you ready to order, sir?"

"Yes," said John and reeled off his own order before he gestured to Sherlock. "And my friend here will have the bruschetta followed by the strozzapreti."

"John."

"And he's really looking forward to it," said John before the waiter smiled again, nodded and walked away, leaving them at the table and Sherlock raising an eyebrow.

"That isn't the same thing," said Sherlock. "You didn't deduce anything."

"I ordered," said John. "And you _will_ like it. The food here's amazing."

"Wonderful," drawled Sherlock. "Is this your usual behaviour on a date? You don't normally assert yourself at dinner."

"I don't usually have to fight to order my own food," said John and shook his head as he tried very hard not to giggle. "So I take it you've thought about this?"

"I thought about taking you to bed," said Sherlock. "We always do dinner."

John frowned. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Are you flirting?"

"I'm making a statement," said Sherlock. "I thought you'd prefer to know where this is going. It removes the uncertainty."

John sighed. "You do know what a date is, don't you? The whole plan is for me to seduce you."

"Shameful, John. I thought you believed in equal opportunities. Surely I'm equally as entitled to seduce you?"

"Telling me we're going to shag when we get home is _not_ seduction."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Then what do you suggest? I always maintain eye contact with you, we smile at one another and I do take an interest in the things that interest you." He gestured to his jacket and slipped it over the back of the chair. "And now I've revealed another layer to suggest that you could take the rest off yourself."

John blinked, took a quick breath and leaned forward over the table to lay his hand on the back of Sherlock's own. "You've been reading the Independent again," he said. "I saw that article."

"Well I've met every requirement," said Sherlock. "You can't argue with that. You, on the other hand, haven't even taken your jumper off."

"I like this jumper."

" _I_ like that jumper," said Sherlock. "But I feel I should point out that so far all you've done is order my food without asking me and you haven't even told me that you want me."

"Of course I want you," said John, louder than he expected. He glanced round, inwardly cringing at being overheard when the waiter delivered the wine. He drank deep from the first glass. The wine was, as he expected, perfect and he licked over his bottom lip as he tried to gather his thoughts. In John's experience, dinner should be accompanied by flirting and the possibility of more. Although he foresaw an evening of being unable to control his own giggling and Sherlock's particular brand of flirting, the man dealt in absolutes and the only genuine question left was disturbingly obvious.

"Okay," John said and cleared his throat. "Your place or mine?"

Sherlock grinned at him across the table and raised his glass. "Mine, obviously," he said. "It's prepared."

"For what?" asked John. "My God, what do you think we're going to do?"

"I plan to take you home and strip you nude at the door. You have the most perfectly proportioned body it's my good fortune to observe and I will ensure that I pay attention to every inch, so that I have a complete catalogue of taste and texture to match the visual one I already possess. I have long considered the exact amount of pressure and suction it will take to make you come in my mouth and I look forward to putting those skills into practice. You strike me as a man who prefers to top so while you recover you will divest me of my clothes and give me the benefit of your experience with your tongue." Sherlock shrugged. "Of course, I'm amenable to whatever position suits your leg better. Wouldn't want you to worry about that."

John stared. He tried very hard to stop, but even as their first course turned up, he couldn't quite make himself do it. Sherlock seemed unfazed and tucked into his food with rare gusto, gesturing briefly at John with a nod.

"You were right," said Sherlock. "This is very good."

"Is it?" asked John and took a quick breath before he picked up his fork. "That...what you just said. That's really going to happen, isn't it?"

"Of course," said Sherlock. "I'm sure you've made plans."

"They kind of go, 'get off with Sherlock'," admitted John.

"Is that all?"

"Well," said John. "Quite happy to go along with your plan, really."

Sherlock grinned. "Excellent. So, before that, why don't you expand on your idea of a good date."

"Right," said John and took another bite. He took a minute to compose himself and looked back at Sherlock again. "So, what do you look for in a man?"

"Is this a trick question?"

"No," said John. "It's a typical first date question. What are you looking for out of this?"

"It _is_ a trick question," sighed Sherlock. "I've already told you what I want to do."

"I mean generally," said John. "Much as I'd like to think I'm your idea of the perfect man, I somehow doubt you've been waiting for a short ex-army doctor."

Sherlock seemed to consider and John waited patiently, wondering what the man would come up with. He didn't know he was holding his breath until Sherlock smiled and reached for John's hand. "You're exactly what I've been looking for," he said. "You're my best friend."

John giggled, unable to help himself and slid his fingers along Sherlock's own. "I didn't know you could do romance."

"It's not romantic, it's the truth."

"Well, it sounded bloody romantic and I'm taking what I can get."

And with that he leaned in close and kissed Sherlock in full view of the restaurant. He closed his eyes and indulged in a very public display of affection he normally didn't indulge in. Sherlock seemed a little surprised but didn't pull away and John stroked his hand over the detective's shoulder and up to his jaw. He smiled against Sherlock's mouth and sighed.

"Okay, you win, let's just go."

"I knew you'd come round to my way of thinking," said Sherlock and drew away to catch the waiter's eye and order the bill.

John couldn't lose the grin at all and felt the urge to turn round and tell everyone that he had finally got a date right. He was quite sure he wouldn't have to run away at the end of the night and that he wouldn't have to wonder whether he was still liked afterward. John wouldn't have to work out whether he liked them either, because Sherlock had long been the best man in his life and sex wouldn't change that. Sex was just one more step for them to take and John cautiously got to his feet, his jumper tugged down slightly to ensure his stiffening dick was covered.

Sherlock stood and put his hand on the small of John's back, urging him out of the restaurant. They actually managed to get out the front door before Sherlock's phone rang out loudly. John watched as Sherlock drew out the phone smoothly and answered it. Lestrade's voice carried and John sighed as he realised that tonight's plans were going to be delayed. The detective inspector never called with five minute requirements and John couldn't quite help huffing at the change in circumstances.

Sherlock roughly put the phone away and lifted his hand to call a cab. "We have to get to Islington," he said and John nodded.

"A murder?" he asked. "Something grisly."

"Something interesting," said Sherlock and opened the cab door for John. "I need you, John."

"Yes, I'm sure you do," said John and sat back, feet pressed against the floor and his back upright in the seat. "Okay, tell me what we're looking at."

"We're looking at..." Sherlock paused and turned to John. "This changes nothing, you do know that, don't you?"

"It's fine," said John and blinked as Sherlock's hand closed over his thigh. "Work comes first, it's fine. It's what we do."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly and a smile briefly touched the side of his mouth. "It'll take twenty five minutes to get to the high street," he said and John nodded.

"Yeah, about that."

John stared out the window as the cab moved through the London streets. He'd resigned himself to an evening of trailing Sherlock as he leapt from one incredible deduction to another. It was fine, he knew it was fine but he couldn't quite help an element of sulking. Just a little one, nothing too terrible and he drummed out an idle beat on the window before he felt a hand slide firmly up to his thigh. He blinked and looked down, watching as Sherlock's hand slid up against John's crotch and gripped firmly.

"What are you-"

"Quiet," said Sherlock and pressed his lips against John's ear. He nipped lightly and John could feel the grin on offer.

Sherlock tugged the zipper down on John's jeans and slipped inside. John gasped at the heat of Sherlock's palm as it slipped down over the heavy length of his cock. He could feel the blood pulsing through the veins that seemed to be increasingly sensitive to Sherlock's touch. John groaned as he felt the fingertips stroke over the head and the first drop of liquid slicked the man's hand.

"I said quiet," murmured Sherlock and John swallowed hard and tried his best to keep from moaning at the sensation. It was increasingly difficult as Sherlock seemed quite intent on making John's head explode. John glanced at the driver but the man seemed more focused on getting them to their destination and, to be fair, had probably heard far worse.

He slide a hand down to Sherlock's wrist and gripped there. "Slow down," he gasped and shivered at Sherlock's chuckle. "Seriously. I'm going to come."

"So come," said Sherlock and as John started to protest about where the mess might end up, the man leaned over and John was quite certain that this was most interesting cab ride he'd ever taken.

John closed his eyes tight as Sherlock took him in his mouth. The suction of his lips was exquisite and he couldn't quite breathe when Sherlock's hand moved faster, squeezing as he slid his hand up to the head. It didn't seem to matter that he'd been told to be quiet, John groaned loudly as he felt the edge hit and gripped the edge of the window and Sherlock's neck. He could feel the heat of the man's mouth as Sherlock sucked, his tongue swirling over the tip until the last of John's semen spurted free of his body.

He was still panting when the driver turned briefly and shook his head. "Leave it out, mate."

"Sorry," gasped John and tried very hard to get his breath back. "Really sorry."

"I hope you're not," said Sherlock and sat up again, rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip. "Because I thoroughly enjoyed that."

"Oh good," said John and nodded hard enough to make him a little dizzy. "Not very sorry at all."

"Glad to know," said Sherlock and kissed John firmly on the cheek. "Now the case."

"Yep," said John and nodded slowly before he turned to Sherlock. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Well, you haven't," said John and lowered his voice, "you know, got off."

"Oh," said Sherlock. "We can deal with that later."

"Are you sure?" asked John as they drew up. "We can find somewhere, if you want. Just somewhere quiet and I can take care of you."

Sherlock winked at him. "I'll bear it in mind. Come along, John." 

John sighed as Sherlock climbed out and moved to follow him. Sherlock turned quickly and put his hand on John's shoulder. "Probably best if you fasten your jeans, first. I don't really like sharing."

John's hand slipped to his jeans and struggled to fasten them quickly. "Sharing?"

Sherlock kissed him quickly and stood up, straightening his collar. "Of course," he said. "I don't want anyone else looking at my boyfriend's naked flesh."

He walked off and John hurried after him until he caught up. He kept pace and nudged Sherlock. "Boyfriend?"

"Yes," said Sherlock. "You said it was your preferred term."

John nodded and held open the door as they walked into the crime scene. He followed Sherlock inside and grinned widely, ignoring the look Donavan gave him as he stepped up to where Sherlock had launched into his initial analysis. He knew he was just staring and cleared his throat as Lestrade gestured at the scene and explained why they couldn't handle it alone.

"Scuse me," he said and straightened up as Lestrade and Sherlock turned. "Is this going to take long?"

"I'm handling this," said Sherlock and John nodded and pointed at the dead body.

"Yeah, I know. But I'm giving you half an hour," he said. "Then we're going home."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?"

"Yep," said John and grinned again. "Come on, genius, we've got plans, remember?"

Sherlock paused, nodded and turned back to the body.

Boyfriend challenge accepted.


	6. The Boyfriend Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock make a break for the flat.
> 
> Naked pretty men and boundless smut. Unashamed, fluffy smut.
> 
> ~

John had always known Sherlock was brilliant but he hadn't quite appreciated the breakneck speed at which the detective could solve a case. He watched as the man burned through the evidence, both that seen and implied until he could produce the information Lestrade so desperately needed. This time he didn't even leave the building and Lestrade seemed as surprised as John when Sherlock delivered the apparently obvious information available to those who truly observe.

With that, Sherlock swept out of the building again, pausing only to inform Lestrade that he would be unavailable for the next few days no matter who died. He barely stopped long enough for John to catch up and only as the cab slowed did Sherlock turn to check that his friend was close by.

"Ah, John, I believe I have another twelve minutes."

"Hmm?" John grabbed the door as Sherlock climbed into the back seat. "For what?"

"Before you call time," said Sherlock and leaned forward to give instructions to the cab driver that weren't quite to home. "I take it travel time is not included."

John frowned as he closed the door behind him and settled next to Sherlock in the back seat. "I really just didn't want the case to last all night," he said and glanced down at Sherlock's hand where it seemed to naturally rest on John's knee. Although John's cock twitched where it rested inside his jeans, it didn't seem as though Sherlock was about to slide his hand any higher this time. John checked that they were with a different cab driver and straightened up in his seat. "So where are we going?"

"Supplies," said Sherlock. "You have a terrible tendency to leave the flat in pursuit of the mundane."

"You mean food."

"Exactly. So we'll stop there now, pick up everything you could possibly require for the next few days and then go home."

John considered and turned to look at Sherlock. "You're putting a do not disturb sign on the flat."

"You have an objection?"

"No," said John. "But we'd better put a few cans of Red Bull on the list."

Sherlock grinned and patted John's knee reassuringly. "Don't worry, John. I don't intend to break you. Just enjoy you."

"Right," said John. "No pressure there."

Sherlock leaned in and in the relative privacy of the back of the cab, nipped John's ear with his teeth and grinned when John giggled. "Pressure wherever you like."

John shook his head, quite unable to fit everything together in his mind. Time spent with Sherlock had meant adapting in many ways, but John had learned quickly and in the quiet stretches he had started to build his own mind palace. Although, to be fair, John's was less a palace and more a bungalow, a place where he could store bits and pieces he might need to recall at some future point. There was an entire room devoted to Sherlock alone, his likes and dislikes, his eccentricities and moments of sheer brilliance. Within the room, John had covered a wall with everything about Sherlock that John found attractive.

Today had led to several manic additions to the wall and John was not entirely surprised that having his ear nibbled upon by the world's only consulting detective had demanded a prominent position.

He turned his head, his mouth close to Sherlock's own. "Did you give Lestrade everything he needs?"

"I gave him enough," said Sherlock. "I have more pressing matters."

"I thought you were married to your work."

"I'm a terrible philanderer," said Sherlock and John giggled again before kissed Sherlock quickly. He hadn't been on a date like this before, though he admitted freely that many of them had ended in a cab with Sherlock. None had ended with snogging in the back before and John was quite happy with the change in circumstance.

The stopped at Tescos and Sherlock hurried John through the aisles, ensuring that the fridge and cupboards would be stocked for a week. Sherlock didn't seem to have any problem at all with the chip and pin machine and John thought it was entirely unfair that all technology seemed to bend under Holmes' attention. The assistant at the till smiled a little too brightly at Sherlock and John glared at him before they left. Sherlock appeared wildly oblivious and John huffed as they walked toward home, bags in hand.

"Is that why you don't do the shopping?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head. "It's dull and you usually manage so well."

"That assistant was staring at you," said John as he hefted a bag up higher. "You saw him, I know you did."

"Actually," said Sherlock. "He was watching you. He's clearly seen you there before and while he obviously knew you lived with someone, he wasn't sure if it was a platonic relationship."

"It _was_ a platonic relationship."

"Oh I don't think that's ever quite been true," said Sherlock. "But today he discovered that you were involved and therefore off the market. His glances toward me served only as a test to see if you were committed." He smiled brightly and reached for the door. "You are quite the aggressor, John. Alpha status well and truly noted."

"Ah," said John and followed Sherlock up the stairs into the kitchen. "I've got to say I was expecting tonight to be a little more spontaneous, you know. With all you said."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as they set the bags on the side and John began to unpack. "I've just dropped a case for this," he said as he watched John. "Isn't that spontaneous?"

"Well, yes, I suppose," said John as he put the milk and butter in the fridge. "It's just with what you said at the restaurant, I thought we'd have barely got up the steps without ripping our clothes off." He bent down to push ice into the freezer and chuckled. "This is just a bit more domestic than I was expecting."

He turned to grab the next bag and blinked as he realised that he'd entirely underestimated his friend. Because while John had expected to put things away and snog on the sofa for a while before retiring to Sherlock's bedroom, the man clearly had other ideas. Sherlock's clothes had been dropped to the edge of the table and the man lounged against the wall, one arm stretched above his head and the other beckoning John.

"I believe you promised to see to me," said Sherlock and John dropped the bag and walked over, hands outstretched to pin both Sherlock's wrists above his head. He launched a furious kiss, his mouth crushing Sherlock's and he felt the man grin. John slid his tongue between soft lips and tasted the warmth of Sherlock's mouth, his body pressed up close so that he could feel Sherlock's firm body against his own and the clearly interested length stiffen against John's belly.

John drew back to catch his breath and grinned at the flushed expression on Sherlock's face. "Right," he said and moved so that he could keep hold of both Sherlock's wrists in one hand. He knew that if Sherlock really wanted to, he could break free, but the detective seemed perfectly happy to let John do whatever he pleased, something that suited both of them.

John slid his hand down over Sherlock's chest, pausing only to feel the quickening beat beneath his fingers before he stroked lower. His fingers brushed over the soft fuzz on Sherlock's belly, all the while watching the expression on his lover's face. Sherlock caught his bottom lip with his teeth and John reached down, his hand recognising the length of warm penis as he squeezed lightly.

"I promised I'd take care of you," he said and Sherlock caught his breath.

"You did," he managed. "You always do."

John grinned and leaned in closer, his mouth pressed a little more gently to Sherlock's own when he kissed him. John relished kissing Sherlock, tasting him when he was away from the rest of the world and the only thing he had to concentrate on was what happened between them. John wanted to be a wealth of possibility, and he worked his hand along the length of Sherlock's erection, feeling the heat and want in the man until it was John who needed more.

He dropped his grip on Sherlock's hands and knelt before him, his fingers trembling slightly as he leaned in to take hold of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock groaned at the touch and John leaned in closer. He offered a tentative lick at the warm skin before he swirled his tongue over the head of his lover's cock. John kept his eyes open, focused on Sherlock's face as he leaned closer and took him deeper. He could feel the sudden press of long fingers against the back of his neck, pressure but no tugging.

John slid his hand up to press against Sherlock's belly, fascinated with the twitch and flutter of muscle beneath the skin. John laved over the warm shaft, sucking slowly, methodically until he could feel Sherlock draw up tight. Sherlock didn't so much groan as drop his head back and growl, his mouth open and his eyes closed as John tasted the first warm spurt of semen in his mouth. He tasted, swallowed and swallowed again, until every last drop was spent. He swirled his tongue over the softening length of Sherlock's penis and let it slide free slowly, easing back until John could drop a kiss to the pronounced hipbone.

"Taken care of," he murmured and grasped the table to get back to his feet. "Better?"

"Incredible," said Sherlock a few seconds later. He reached out and kissed John slowly, lips pressed almost tenderly to the corner of John's mouth. "I was right."

"Stop the press," smiled John. "What about?"

"You've done that before."

"I've done a lot of things before," said John agreeably. "That just happens to be one of them."

"And all your protests," said Sherlock as he reached up to draw John's jumper over his head. "Not gay?"

"Not exclusively anything."

"Mrs Hudson was a little offended when you said we'd need two bedrooms."

"We _do_ need two bedrooms. And anyway, I didn't know you then. I wasn't about to leap into bed with you."

"You thought about it."

"Of course I thought about it," said John, watching as Sherlock opened his shirt and slid it down off his shoulders. "A man with all that knowledge and intuition? I'd be mad if I hadn't thought about it."

"Unless you were straight."

"Evidently not the case," said John and caught his breath when Sherlock's cold fingers brushed his belly to reach for his belt. "This would be the stripping part then."

"Well observed," said Sherlock and roughly drew the belt free of John's belt loops and dropped it to the floor. "You remember what comes next?"

"Me, I think," said John and grinned. "Course, you've already taken your gear off, so I'm not sure what I'm going to do afterward."

"I assure you I shall make several suggestions," said Sherlock and pushed John's jeans down to the floor. John toed off his shoes and socks and stepped free of the last of his clothes.

He glanced down and back up to Sherlock. "I'm all yours."

"Yes, you are," said Sherlock and kissed him before he reached for John's hand and led him to his bedroom. The top sheet was already turned down and John let Sherlock push him back against the mattress.

"Are we going to fuck?" he asked and Sherlock nodded.

"Eventually," he said and crawled above John, hands placed carefully on the mattress so he could lean in and draw his tongue over John's collarbone. Sherlock's fingertips sketched the way, easing over the doctor's skin and John reveled in the certainty that all of this would be remembered, that he would be forever locked in Sherlock's memory. He wondered if he had his own little room in that expansive palace and chuckled at what it might look like, a John shaped area of Sherlock's brain.

Sherlock spared him nothing, kissing and nibbling over his skin until John was convinced he was melting into the sheets. He sighed and stretched out, his eyes closed as he reveled in being petted. His groaned as Sherlock nuzzled in against his hipbone and John arched his back for more attention. He couldn't breathe when he felt the warm mouth slip along his erection and blinked to see the top of Sherlock's curls against his belly.

"Oh yes," he managed. "Yes, do that, please."

Sherlock paused briefly and looked up at John. "How many men," he asked and John swallowed hard.

"Really? You're asking me that now?"

Sherlock bent his head and swiped his tongue along the shaft of John's cock. "I think it's relevant."

"It's really not," said John. "What you were doing, that's relevant."

"I want to know who I'm competing with," said Sherlock. "The women, I know. But, men...I suspected but wasn't entirely sure."

"Just one night stands," said John and when he felt another of those infuriatingly wonderful licks he groaned. "No one on this continent."

"Really?" asked Sherlock. "You only practice abroad?"

"Seemed like a good idea," said John. "You know how it is. You're out of town, you just fancy something different."

"Most people tend to stick to a change of diet," said Sherlock and pressed his mouth to John's belly. "You were hungry for something else."

"Pretty starved right now," said John.

"Ah yes, well I did pull you away from dinner."

"Not for that," said John and cleared his throat as Sherlock sprawled between his thighs. "God, I really need you to suck me."

Sherlock grinned. "Have I told you that you really sound wonderfully husky when you're aroused."

"Works for me," said John. "Please?"

"A double request," said Sherlock and bent back to the task at hand. "I hate to refuse you anything."

"You're always saying no," began John and broke off when he felt the deliberate and wonderful suction of Sherlock's mouth. "Fine, fine. Say whatever you like."

"Do shut up, John," said Sherlock briefly. "The noises you make will be fine."

John nodded and groaned at the heat of Sherlock's mouth as it sank over the length of him. He felt caught, wonderfully caught as his cock was slaved over and John lifted his hips from the bed, pushing up against Sherlock's tongue. He caught his breath as he felt his balls draw up tight and felt the deft touch of Sherlock's fingers against his skin. There was no escape and John clutched at the sheets as he came hard and felt Sherlock suck him apparently dry.

He lay against the sheets, his skin damp to the touch and his belly quivering with the aftermath of having been so expertly adored. John turned his head as Sherlock crept up the bed and lay next to him, his chin pillowed on John's shoulder. Sherlock dropped a kiss against the puckered, spidery scar and then smiled at John. "Wonderful, thank you," he said and John grinned back.

"I think I'm supposed to be saying that," said John. "Thank you, by the way. That was amazing."

"Yes, I know," said Sherlock and settled his hand on John's chest. "I learn something new about you every day."

"I hope today's been a high point."

"Absolutely," said Sherlock and closed his eyes. "Today I learned that John Watson tastes like sandalwood and ever so slightly of salt. Each of your scars is a story I haven't yet learned and your cock is wonderfully responsive to everything I do."

John grinned and stroked his hand against ruffled curls. "It kind of always has been," he admitted.

"I thought it would."

"Bighead," said John and settled down. "I take it we're sleeping."

"It's been a long day," said Sherlock. "You'll need your rest."

"Yep," said John and pulled the pillow beneath his head. "I guess this'll answer the question," he said.

"Hmm?"

"On whether you're a snorer," said John and flipped the light off. "Get some sleep."

"I plan to," said Sherlock. "Oh and John?"

"Yes."

"The only man on this continent, if you don't mind."

John grinned and rested back against the sheets. His eyes closed and his body languished in the warmth Sherlock's lanky frame could offer. He thought his dating career might be over, but he was quite certain he was trading up. No more Miss One Night Stand. A Mister Holmes would do just fine.


	7. The Boyfriend Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock the morning after. Lazy smutty sex and fluff galore.

John had opened his eyes in several strange beds before this morning, but he'd never been woken by a criminal investigation on top of the covers before.

He lifted one hand to scrub through his hair and reached out to pick up a photograph from where it lay on his belly. It described what he assumed was a dead body from the single leg in the frame. He tilted it to the left but couldn't quite pick out which way up it should be. The photograph was plucked from his fingers, corrected and returned. John pushed himself up in bed to look at it properly.

"Lestrade rang, then?"

Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement and drew up the photographs into apparently random piles on the bed. He was at least still naked, the sheets pooled in his lap as he lifted each picture and looked more closely at the outlying evidence. John dropped the photograph to the sheets and tried to get an idea of what Sherlock was looking at. Death, it seemed, was very much for breakfast and John really did prefer tea.

"I thought we had plans this morning."

"We do," said Sherlock. "I was taking advantage of your sleeping habits."

"I was sleeping. It's not a habit, it's a biological necessity."

"As you say," said Sherlock and looked at the corner of a photograph that seemed no different to any of the five others that were similar. He drew up his magnifying glass and John rested back against the pillows.

"So?" asked John. "What's it all about then?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, reached for his phone and fired off a quick text. "Nothing," he said and smiled briefly. "It's dealt with."

He pushed the photographs from the bed and leaned over, long limbs wrapping round John as he kissed him soundly and made John's cheeks flush. John grinned as the man leaned back to check that he'd had the desired effect. He recognised the high colour at Sherlock's temples and the dilated pupils; John was quite aware that Sherlock's marriage to his work had its very own regular climax. He felt something of an illicit lover and the thrill that went with it made John very much aware he was naked and in bed with the beautiful man he'd chosen.

"How long've you been up?"

"I stayed in bed," said Sherlock pointedly. "I haven't left the flat."

"I really hope you already had these photos somewhere," said John. "You haven't had Lestrade stomping in here with that lot?"

"He sent them here," said Sherlock. "Last night. I didn't want to bother you while you were sleeping."

"That's serious consideration," grinned John and pushed Sherlock's hair back from his head. "I have to say, I prefer a cup of tea instead of a corpse if you're planning to wake me up."

"I thought you might have slept a little longer," said Sherlock. "I was planning something else."

"Bacon sandwich?"

"Not quite what I had in mind," said Sherlock and slipped back from John's arms. He edged back on the bed and drew away the covers from John's hips. Sherlock arched an eyebrow as he reached out to touch. "I didn't know crime solving had such an effect, John. You should have told me."

"It's the not the crime, you daft bugger," said John and caught his breath as he felt Sherlock's hand stroke over the length of his cock. "Really not the crime. You do look hot when you're concentrating."

"Hot?" asked Sherlock and leaned down, his mouth ghosting over the shaft of John's stiffening length. "I knew you appreciated genius."

"Oh yes," said John and closed his eyes as Sherlock's lips encircled the head of his cock. "God, yes."

Sherlock grinned against John's cock and sucked slowly, his mouth sliding down along the length of him until John groaned loudly. John clutched at Sherlock's hair, his fingers threading into dark curls until he could draw him in closer still. He loved having his cock sucked and Sherlock was clearly expert at this, as he was in everything he put his mind to. John lifted his hips, arching up into the mouth that seemed to swallow him whole and braced his feet on the mattress to get more. He was hungry, greedy for the contact and the warmth of Sherlock. John desperately wanted to come and watch Sherlock swallow. He wanted to watch Sherlock indulge in John just as much as he indulged in himself.

John felt the edge rush up against him and didn't pause as he gave into it. He came hard, feeling every last drop leave his body into the constant suck and swallow his lover gave him. John dropped back against the bed as the last of the orgasm claimed him and he moaned slowly, bottom lip caught in his teeth and his fingers flexed away from Sherlock's hair. He'd claimed a curl or two as he came, but Sherlock let John's cock slip free of his mouth and leaned up on the bed with a smile on his lips.

"You never say my name," said Sherlock and John blinked slowly as his brain processed the question. "You're so quiet."

"Used to trying to get away with it," sighed John and stroked Sherlock's jawline. "Not used to being allowed to yell."

"I don't think Mrs Hudson would like that," said Sherlock and chuckled at John's expression. "But you could say it. I'd like it if you said it."

John nodded and reached for Sherlock. He whispered Sherlock's name and was happy when the man leaned up and over him, his rangy body pressed against John's on the mattress. John stroked his fingertips over the back of Sherlock's neck and kissed him, his tongue stroking words in Sherlock's mouth. He groaned again and felt the insisted push of Sherlock's cock pressed to his thigh. John had spent time fucking and in turn being fucked and it seemed that coming once was nowhere near the end of the morning for him.

"Sherlock," he murmured against the man's ear. "Let's fuck."

"As amazing as you are, John," said Sherlock as he grinned against John's mouth. "I think you might need a few minutes."

" _You_ don't," said John and Sherlock lifted his head to meet he good doctor's eyes. John reached down and gripped Sherlock firmly, his fingers sliding up and over the head to feel the slick pre-come there. "Fuck me."

Sherlock stared but didn't answer. He leaned in to kiss John before he slipped from the sheets and pulled hard on his bedside drawer. The contents spilled out, but Sherlock located the narrow bottle quickly and flipped the lid open. John watched eagerly as Sherlock slicked his fingertips over the hard length of his cock, every last delicious inch covered in the contents of the bottle.

John spread his thighs easily, one foot pressed up close to his bottom as he offered Sherlock easier access. He felt the delicate touch of Sherlock's fingers on his perineum and then the pressure as the detective pushed forward. John hissed out a hard breath as Sherlock slid his fingertip inside. He thought he was prepared for the sensation, but Sherlock appeared unwilling to pay attention to only one part of John at a time. John gasped as Sherlock's other hand stroked over his balls, the soft sac drawn up tight and sensitive under Sherlock's attention.

He squirmed on the bed, wriggling under Sherlock slightly until John could feel two long fingers nudging against the sensitive little gland buried inside him. He arched again, grin etched across his face as Sherlock leaned over him and drew his tongue over John's nipple. John giggled, ticklish and indulged. He stretched his arms out above his head, abandoning himself to whatever Sherlock wanted of him.

"This is brilliant," said John and sighed as he looked up at Sherlock. "I mean it. We can do this all the time."

"We're doing it now," said Sherlock and frowned at John's blissed out expression. "You do want to do this, John?"

"Oh yeah," said John and reached out, his fingertips sliding along the slick shaft of Sherlock's cock. "Yeah, I want to feel you fuck me."

"Excellent," said Sherlock and shifted on the bed. He drew his fingers back and John reached for Sherlock's hips, drawing him in close as the detective applied his talents to fucking John Watson. John could feel the slip and push, the heat that made him want to wriggle on the bed and the insistent buck of Sherlock's hips that pinned him still. John held his breath, bottom lip caught under his teeth as he watched Sherlock's face. The man was concentrating, holding back as he eased forward and inside John.

The burning ache beneath his balls made John tense up, but Sherlock relentlessly pressed forward, easing inside John as he leaned over him and pressed his mouth to John's own. John licked at Sherlock's mouth as he tried to move, to make it easier on himself. John pressed up, wanting to take every last inch of the man inside him. His cock twitched, not quite ready to grow hard but affected by the burn of being fucked. John arched against Sherlock as he felt the weight of Sherlock's cock sink past the tight ring of muscle and slide deeper inside.

John panted against the sheets and gripped harder, his hands at Sherlock's hips as he pulled. He'd never backed away from anything and if he chose to fight another war on the bed, then it would always be on his terms. He licked at Sherlock's mouth as the man braced himself and began to move. Each slow thrust burned, the slippery liquid smoothing the way, but John's body fought, succumbing in to Sherlock's demands with each rock of his hips. John's soul and heart had been Sherlock's for the taking, but his body was firmly under John's control and he gave it, fucking the man back as they clutched at each other on the mattress.

Sherlock moved eagerly, his control evident but worn hard as John's hands drew him in closer. He groaned as he rocked his hips and John held him firmly. They rolled on the bed, tied together by hands and cock and a gaze neither wanted to break. Each kiss promised more until Sherlock broke first, his hands grasping at John's back and buttocks as he thrusted harder. He fucked with abandon, his back arched as he spent himself inside John and at the point of orgasm, John thought Sherlock was never more a creature meant to indulge in every earthly pleasure.

Sherlock dropped down against John, face pressed up against his neck and his body shivering in the aftermath. John stroked a hand up and over Sherlock's back, and touched the dimple to the left of his spine. He grinned as Sherlock kissed his shoulder and then drew back carefully. John sighed as Sherlock slid free of him and let John have his body back again. John stretched out on the bed, his body his own once more, but his brain free to enjoy having seen Sherlock at his most vulnerable. He turned his head to watch Sherlock slow his breathing again and regain some semblance of control.

"Sherlock," he said and grinned when Sherlock looked back at him. "Thank you for staying in bed with me."

"We had plans."

"Still," said John. "Thank you. I don't like waking up alone."

"You usually walk out before they wake up."

"This is different," said John and shifted gingerly to his side. "If I was going to walk out I'd walk upstairs," he said and reached out to draw his thumb over Sherlock's jaw. "And you'd follow me."

"I don't like your bed," said Sherlock. "You need better sheets."

"You wouldn't follow me?"

"Of course I would," said Sherlock. "It's not always _you_ catching up."

"Yes it is."

"All right, it is when we're on a case, but this is different."

"Because it's sex."

"Because we're a couple." Sherlock frowned and then shrugged at John. "And I enjoy your company. I don't like it when you're not here."

"That's fortunate," said John and rested against the sheets. "Because I intend to be a really good boyfriend."

"You've been mine for a while," said Sherlock. "All your girlfriends have said so."

"Yeah, well sometimes I'm slow," said John and grinned as Sherlock reached for his phone. "Sex before work?"

"Work, sex and now breakfast," said Sherlock and grinned at Lestrade's text. "And then work."

"Ah," said John as Sherlock climbed out of bed and grabbed for his trousers. "And then sex?"

"John Watson, you really are a demanding boyfriend," said Sherlock.

"Too much?"

"Never," grinned Sherlock and tossed John his dressing gown. "Get up, get the kettle on."

John laughed and shrugged his way into the slightly too tight robe. "I feel fucking amazing."

"Yes you do," said Sherlock and leaned over to kiss him. "And you're all mine."

"Hey," said John and kissed him back. "Behave, or I won't make you tea."

"That's blackmail."

John chuckled. "Absolutely." He grinned broadly. "Best thing about having a boyfriend."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your kind words and encouragement. I'm glad you've enjoyed this and I will pursue those naughty drawings of Sherlock's.
> 
> And in the end, they really are such naked and pretty men!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm currently writing something a bit longer and will be sending it to a fabulous new beta. But I had writers block and asked a friend for something to write in the meantime. She suggested that John had a few dates and Sherlock was jealous.
> 
> I'm not sure whether I've quite captured what she wanted, but I do like the smut as always!
> 
> Comments, love and any criticism always welcome. This is just too tempting to write.


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